This is a lovely little story about a computer scientist who wants to be a writer. Unfortunately, all his stories seem to begin "It was a dark and stormy night..."

Not to be defeated, this computer scientist invents a computer that mass produces stories. He then tries to pitch of to his boss:

“My dear boy, you’re mad!”
“No, sir, honestly, it’s true what I say. Don’t you see that with volume alone we’ll completely overwhelm them! This machine can produce a five-thousand-word story, all typed and ready for dispatch, in thirty seconds. How can the writers compete with that? I ask you, Mr Bohlen, how?”

Eventually he persuades his boss to give it a go and construct the story machine because isn't everything mass produced?

bricks…crockery…anything you like to mention—
they’re all made by machinery now. The quality may be inferior, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the cost of production that counts. And stories—well—they’re just another product, like carpets and chairs, and no one cares how you produce them so long as you deliver the goods. We’ll sell them wholesale, Mr Bohlen! We’ll undercut every writer in the country! We’ll corner the market!”

The construction and fine tuning of the machine will seem familiar to you. It could be Anthropic's latest blog post.

The short of it is that the computer scientist is successful. He makes a story machine and dominates the literary market with only a few hiccups:

In his excitement, Adolph Knipe promptly ran off six more stories in as many minutes. All of them—except one, which for some reason came out a trifle lewd—seemed entirely satisfactory.

Dahl doesn't seem to think things will end well for the writers:

Does this surprise you?
I doubt it.
And worse is yet to come. Today, as the secret spreads, many more are hurrying to tie up with Mr Knipe. And all the time the screw turns tighter for those who hesitate to sign their names.

This very moment, as I sit here listening to the howling of my nine starving children in the other room, I can feel my own hand creeping closer and closer to that golden contract that lies over on the other side of the desk.

Give us strength, Oh Lord, to let our children starve.